Maybe Just a Touch of a Hand
by Madame Yoda
Summary: Haymitch becomes distracted by, maybe, just the touch of a hand. Inspired by Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran.


For Tumblr's Hayffie week, Day 1:

Based on Ed Sheeran's "Thinking Out Loud"

 _People fall in love in mysterious ways;_

 _maybe just the touch of a hand._

"We'll need the same headset system we had at the hospital in Eight, so I can keep in touch with the girl when the squadron goes into the Capitol."

Haymitch bounced the rubber tip of his stylus off his tablet distractedly as he spoke. The command team sat making preliminary arrangements for Squadron 451's deployment, but nothing could be put into place definitely until the results of the victors' field tests came in.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," cautioned Plutarch. "Katniss and Johanna aren't exactly ideal recruits. They may not even qualify for combat."

Beetee piped up, "The composition of the Star Squadron won't change the fact that they'll go in without linked voice communication. It's too risky."

"What? And who's gonna talk sense into that kid's head when she decides to march off and fight her own private battles? Pollux?"

"We simply can't take the risk. Even with spread-spectrum encryption, it is still possible for Capitol technicians to intercept radio communications," replied Beetee. "It's unlikely, but possible. They'll each have a holo, protective gear, and their specialty weapons, but no link to us, here in 13. The holos should be enough to guide them."

Haymitch mumbled, "Yeah, _should_. That's what worries me."

"And _who_ is going to prepare our Mockingjay for the camera after she's slept in a pup tent all week?" Effie sat smoothing the wrinkles from her leggings and fidgeting in the conference chair next to Haymitch. "She'll have to be powdered correctly or she'll shine like polished brass in that daylight."

Haymitch swivelled slightly in his chair. "Look, just pack up the suits she'll need and let Cressida worry about…"

Mid-sentence, the stylus Haymitch had been toying with tumbled out of his grasp, and landed with a clack on the floor between him and Effie. Before he could push his chair back from the table to retrieve it, Effie placed her right hand on top of his and said impatiently, "It's right here. I'll get it."

It took only a second for Effie to lean over and pick up the stylus and lay it on the table beside his tablet. She went back to fussing with the seams of her leggings, chattering, mostly to herself, about the condition of off-camera production.

In that instant, several things seized Haymitch's attention.

Physical contact was a little bit of a rarity for the ex-mentor. He would comfort Katniss if the situation seemed to require it. Naturally, there were occasional greeting and farewell handshakes. But most people kept their distance, and he was not insensible to the fact that he could appear abrasive and sometimes, given enough alcohol, he was downright repulsive. Effie's touch, however, conveyed a comfortable familiarity and an ability to absorb, rather than repel, his rough bearing.

Haymitch could feel that the skin on the palm of her hand was warm, markedly so, and dry. He could tell that it was soft, too, when she pressed on his own hand as she leaned down to get the stylus.

He found himself staring at her hands as she tugged at her clothes; he followed them as she tucked them under her chin with her elbows on the table. Would the skin under the cuffs of that shirt feel like that? Was it as warm?

"Haymitch, did you hear what I said?" It was Plutarch.

"What." he spat, transported back to the meeting. Then, realizing that he hadn't heard, "No."

"You'll have to tell Katniss that Johanna's back in the medical ward." Plutarch sighed, "It might not be a bad idea for you to catch her after her own test. I don't know how she's going to react if she doesn't pass either."

"Yeah, good point." Haymitch rose from his chair and sauntered to the door leading into the corridor. He veered towards the hospital to find out what he'd missed.

* * *

Two days later, the breakfast conversation centered around Katniss' wardrobe for the upcoming filming of propos in the Capitol. Several members of the command team who usually enjoyed the privacy of an administrative dining room, sipped their watered-down juice in the company of Squadron 451, the Star Squadron. Although this operation would present some real threats to the new soldiers, the opportunity and timing were critical, and the footage might generate just the _esprit-de-corps_ needed to end the war.

"I'm sorry," said Boggs, "it's just not practical. A soldier's got to be adequately protected in the field. She cannot put on some silly costume every time we engage."

Cressida countered. "I'm not saying she has to wear it all the time. But if we know in advance where we'll be filming, we can plan for a little camera prep."

"I agree," interjected Plutarch, "This isn't about combat. It's about publicity. She has to look the part."

"She'll look the part in a soldier's uniform. She is a soldier now," replied Boggs, poorly disguising his annoyance.

Effie slid her half-eaten breakfast toward the middle of the table. "The very idea of broadcasting our Mockingjay in nothing but institutional rags; as if Cinna's work weren't the epitome of military fashion. How will anyone even know it's her in that uniform?" She said this with less than her customary indignation. It was a early for her, and breakfast offered little in the way of stimulation.

Haymitch, a few seats away, had been watching her. The memory of her warm hand on his the other day had become subtly intrusive. He found himself fabricating the sensation in his mind at odd times, and at this moment he sat studying the bulky cotton of Effie's ill-fitting sweater. He imagined that it was preserving the last remnants of heat clinging to her from a reluctantly vacated bed. Maybe she had curled up under rumpled sheets, not half an hour since, willing away that hateful wake-up call. She was human under that shell of hers; maybe she…"

"Are you going to eat that?" Katniss interrupted. The fog surrounding Haymitch evaporated.

"What?" He looked at the dry toast on his tray. "No."

"I think they dried out more than your liver," scoffed Katniss as she walked off with his toast.

* * *

By 8:30 that evening, Squadron 451's armored personnel carrier was loaded and inspected, ready for take-off the next morning. A few ground crewmen, soldiers, and command members lingered in the hangar to review orders one last time. Effie counted the crates containing identical Mockingjay outfits, and rearranged a few small sealed packs of supplies to make sure they wouldn't be crushed if things shifted in flight. She observed Haymitch through the hovercraft's cargo hatch wandering from station to station seemingly without purpose. She saw him step outside through the wide hangar gate. After securing one last pack, she followed him.

Stepping outside was a privilege few District 13 inhabitants enjoyed. The winter air was cold, but not unbearably so, and Effie guessed that they must not be far from the eastern ocean. Haymitch sat on the outside edge of a short rampart that formed part of the concrete roof-support of the hangar. His hands rested on his knees, and he stared into the distance.

"We can't see them in the Capitol," said Effie quietly.

Haymitch turned his head to find Effie standing within inches of his left shoulder. He hadn't noticed her approach.

"Can't see what?" he asked.

"The stars. There are too many lights. We can't see them."

Haymitch looked up. It was, indeed, a clear night, and the gap created by the hidden bunker afforded an excellent view of the heavens. For a moment he thought about the nights he and his brother would lie on the ground trying to find the pictures they'd heard they could form by connecting the stars. He nodded, but remained silent.

Effie sat down close to Haymitch. She pulled the coarse sweater around her shoulders and wrapped her hands in its baggy hem while Haymitch watched.

Haymitch watched Effie's hands as she looked up at the stars. They remained that way, silent, for several minutes.

Without taking her eyes off of the stars, the former escort spoke, "Haymitch, you've been staring at me all week. Why?"

Haymitch, taken aback, lifted his gaze, "I… I dunno."

She met his gaze, mustered up her characteristic gumption, and prepared herself for the truth. "You're sorry I'm here."

"No. I'm not." The emphasis and immediacy with which he denied it startled them both. They looked away from each other, and sat uncomfortably for another several minutes in silence.

Effie rose abruptly and began to walk toward the hangar. "Good night, Haymitch. I'll see you tomorrow at the launch."

"Wait a sec," Haymitch sprang up and caught Effie's forearm to stop her from entering the hangar. "Look, um… this place… it does something to your head, you know. I… I can't go with them. I'm just an old drunk, and when this is all over, that's all I'll be anymore. There won't be any victors like there used to before, and that's good, but no one will remember…" Haymitch sighed and released Effie's arm. He sank back down on the concrete block, shook his head and mumbled in the general direction of the gravel, "I'm sorry. I'm just thinkin' out loud. I didn't mean to… … Good night."

The ground crew supervisor looked at his watch. Though he was instructed to be patient with the newcomers' habit of strolling outdoors, it was past 9:00, and his watch had ended an hour ago. He walked to the portal threshold, picked up the intercom microphone to announce the securing of the hangar gate. He swept his eyes over the shadows outside. He paused, smiled to himself, and replaced the microphone gently.

The strange woman from the capitol hesitantly stepped over to that Abernathy fellow, took him into her arms, and kissed him under the light of 1,000 stars.


End file.
